


the dance of queens

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Series: a winter bathed in fire [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Very heavily implied sexual content, corresponds to GoT season 8 in timeline, dany is a bi queen, dany sansa or jon/dany stans dni, or at least until yalls realise i need motivation, sansa has internalised homophobia so a tag for that, sansa stark is very gay, sort of a fusion of the show and book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Sansa and Daenerys meet in Winterfell. Winter is upon Westeros, but can they find a way to work together to combat it?(Featuring: Sansa’s gay panic, Daenerys’s dinner dress, and much more...)
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: a winter bathed in fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806646
Comments: 33
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what kind of AU this is... it’s vaguely Game of Thrones season 8 canon divergence, but keeps many things from the books (ie Jon Snow is still dead, Sansa didn’t marry Ramsay, and Arya is still missing). Depending on the response I might make this a multi-chapter fic...

The first time Sansa Stark met Daenerys Targaryen, she couldn’t help the words that came to her mouth. 

“You’re shorter than I expected,” Sansa blurts out as she stands in the Winterfell yard, her cheeks already reddening: not from the cold air around her that informs that winter is well and truly here, but from her embarrassment at saying such a crude jest in front of the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She had hoped Daenerys would react favourably to her jest, but instead the queen’s brows lower and she frowns.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Though she is said to be a queen of fire and blood, Daenerys’s tone is as icy as the wind that blows through Winterfell.

Instead of apologising for her lack of etiquette, though, Sansa pulls herself up straight and decides to give Daenerys a stern sense of who has charge in Winterfell. 

“I do, indeed,” Sansa snaps, her eyes boring into Daenerys. “You are a fool thinking you can come to Winterfell and expect to be treated as a queen here.” 

Daenerys’s answering stare is deadly enough to make a Lannister quail. “I am no fool of a Mad Queen like my father, _Lady Stark_. And you shall answer to me, one day soon, when I take the Iron Throne.”

“The North will bow to the Iron Throne no longer.” Sansa finds herself feeling truly Northern at long last, as she stares down this girl who would call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Daenerys is the first to break away, and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms walks away in a huff, large puffs of smoke forming from her exhales.

Sansa stares daggers after her. 

* * *

It had been deemed improper for Winterfell to not hold a welcoming feast for Daenerys, no matter how Sansa felt about the supposed Queen’s behaviour, and the Great Hall on this evening was warm and well-lit. There were not so many people as had been at Robert Baratheon’s welcoming feast, Sansa noted, and part of her wanted to tell Daenerys that—yet she forced herself to bite her lip and keep petty insults inside her own mouth. 

The singer for the feast, Edryk Goldentongue or some name of the like, sat melancholy in the centre of the feast, plucking out the melodies to older, darker tunes than was normal. Winter was well and truly upon them, Sansa knew, and she could barely remember the feeling of summer any more.

Sansa sat in the lord’s seat, overlooking the great long feast tables. Few had dared to sit near her, Sansa’s dark mood unsuitable to their demeanour. Daenerys Targaryen had not yet entered, and Sansa would be sure to jab at her for that when she finally arrived.

Sansa did not know why Daenerys raised her hackles so. She felt it was due to more than just her dislike of Daenerys’s claiming of the North for her Seven Kingdoms, yet she had no idea what this other factor for her hatred of Daenerys was.

The great doors to the hall swung open, moved by two of Daenerys’s Unsullied servants, and the would-be Queen enters. 

Sansa thinks her jaw might have dropped.

Daenerys’s clothing is utterly unsuitable for the North: yards of skin are on show to the hall; the little fabric she does wear is thin and silky. It looks to be in the fashion of one of the Free Cities, as Sansa has never seen a garment in Westeros like it.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys says, portraying utter grace and poise. “My lateness is quite unforgivable. Yet I felt myself taken by your wonderful castle, and quite lost sense of the time.”

For once, Sansa cannot think of a stinging retort. Instead, what is on her tongue is something quite different, and something very unlikely to impress those gathered. 

“Queen— _Lady_ Targaryen. I think I shall call it acceptable for a first night. Winterfell is so immense and fascinating, do you not think?” Sansa hopes to provoke Daenerys, for she knows that the girl has never had a true home to call hers, yet it does not elicit the intended reaction.

“Quite,” Daenerys says, as she walks through the centre gap between tables to approach the lord’s seat. “Perhaps you could tell me more of Winterfell over dinner, Lady Stark. I find myself quite invested.”

Daenerys seats herself in the adjoining chair to Sansa, and Sansa is rather sure she blushes, though her mind is torn between thinking _how dare she?_ and _she looks so beautiful in that dress._

“Have you had the first course already?” Daenerys asks when she sees Sansa’s empty plate.

“Indeed,” Sansa says, and if she were quite coherent she would tack an insult to the end of that statement. However, there is something about the way Daenerys’s skin seems to shine in the torchlight and the glimmer of cunning in her eyes that breaks Sansa’s mind apart, leaves her stumbling in the wake of such perfection.

“When shall the second be served, then? I find myself quite famished.” Daenerys’s eyes are full of mischief and intelligence. When she looks into them, they leave Sansa stammering, unsure of what to say.

“Quite soon, I hope. Did you not eat on the crossing from Essos?”

“I ate, though I am not sure you can call the food fulfilling by any standards. I am much happier with the food your cooks will prepare for us.”

“It may be lacking,” Sansa confesses, “for we have only several workers left in the kitchens. Winter has taken most of them from us.”

“You talk of winter as if it were an enemy you are to face in battle.” Daenerys observes, twisting strands of her white hair together. 

“I suppose we will, soon,” Sansa says, folding her hands on her lap. “There are words that a King of Winter approaches us, leading a host of Others.”

“I have not heard much about your northern ways, I confess,” Daenerys says. “You speak of these... _Others_ as if you know them well.”

“All Northern children grow up knowing of the Others.” Sansa says. “It is merely I never thought I would face them. The stories say... they say that they were defeated in the Long Night, long ago. They should not have risen again.”

Daenerys shrugs. “It seems many things are rising again. The Targaryens, for one. The Starks, for another.”

“Yes, it seems so.” Sansa says, eyes moving upwards to see the platter of food being brought to their table. She smiles.

“Cook has tried hard for you, Queen— _Lady_ Daenerys. I have not seen this since the days of summer.” 

Daenerys smiles. “Then I shall cherish this meal.” 

* * *

Sansa is in the Winterfell library when she next sees Daenerys. After the first night’s feast, she had found herself warming up to Daenerys, her earlier animosity partly forgotten. Yet Daenerys had not come to the feasts for two evenings running, and Sansa had wondered if perhaps her presence had ruined it for her. 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says pleasantly. “I had thought to find you here.” 

Sansa looks up from her book—a tome on the ways of lordship, by a Targaryen-named maester. “I often visit here, indeed,” she says, already pulling out a chair for Daenerys. “What would you like to talk about?”

Daenerys laces her fingers together. “I had thought to ask about what you wish me to do in your efforts against this... King of Wintet and his host of Others.” 

Sansa sighs. “I mislike having to think about that. I had supposed that we would sent a host to the Wall, to aid them...” 

“I believe my dragons may be of help there.” Daenerys says, lines surfacing on her forehead. “The reports from the Wall say that fire is effective against Others.”

“You have—you have _dragons_?” Although Sansa herself had owned a direwolf, dragons were something else. The legends always spoke of Vhagar, Meraxes and Balerion, more so than any other creature, and to even have a dragon skull showed incredible wealth and power. Let alone the immeasurable value of living dragons...

“Truly,” Daenerys says with a smile. “Would you like to see them?”

* * *

Daenerys led Sansa into the land outside Winterfell, pausing when they had reached what seemed to be the highest hill for miles. Daenerys looks into the sky, her gaze searching the grey clouds that spoke of rain—then suddenly she grabbed Sansa’s arm and pointed to a black shape in the sky to their left. 

“There he is,” Daenerys breathes, the slightest of smiles upon her face. “He’ll come in a moment, just you see.”

The black shape grows larger and larger until finally, Sansa begins to see the dragon fully. It is black and red, much smaller than Balerion was said to have been—yet she found herself holding her breath all the same as it approached.

Daenerys steps forward to meet the dragon, reaching out a hand to it as it lands. Sansa’s breath hitches in her throat as she looks at the dragon, still hardly believing her eyes.

“This is Drogon,” Daenerys turns to her. “He is named after my sun and stars, Khal Drogo.”

The way she says ‘my sun and stars’ stirs something in Sansa, something jealous and coveting. Sansa forces herself to ignore it as she steps closer to Drogon.

Up close, his scales shine, looking oily and slick even though the North is never hot, and his eyes are embers of red-hot fire, a stronger and purer red than Sansa’s hair. Daenerys takes her hand and places it against Drogon’s body. 

Under her hands, Drogon’s body is warm, and he seems to take well to the contact. She puts her other hand on him, marvelling at the warmth. Dragons are even better than the hot-spring heating of Winterfell. 

Daenerys laughs, and Sansa realised she said that out loud. She blushes in response, as she does many times around Daenerys. 

“What do you think?” Daenerys says a moment after, and for a moment they are not queens, merely two girls—except fawning over a dragon instead of a dress. 

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” she breathes, staring at Daenerys’s small smile at her declaration. 

“I’m glad you think so.” Daenerys smiles, easily, then she bites her lip. “And what—what do you think of me?”

Sansa blinks. “I think—I think you’re not that bad, not really. You’re different to how I thought you would be.”

“In a good way?”

Sansa chews her lip. “Yes. You’re kind, not like some others who call themselves rulers. And I think—I think you genuinely care.” 

“I’ve never had anyone say that to me,” Daenerys admits, softly. Then she adds, “I think you care, too. You just hide it well.”

Sansa smiles. “Thank you.” 

_Thank you for taking me here,_ Sansa thinks.

“Sansa—” Daenerys starts. She inhales deeply. “You care about me, don’t you?”

The wind cards gentle fingers through their hair, raising it off their faces and necks. Sansa moves towards her, stroking her hair back into place.

“I do,” Sansa says, and then she kisses her.

Daenerys’s lips taste like she imagines fire would taste against hers, warm and only a bit discomfiting. Sansa realised how cold she is as she kisses Daenerys, her lips feeling like they have been ice for years until she put them against Daenerys’s. 

She pulls back, flustered, when they start to kiss in earnest, even though the memory of Daenerys’s lips on hers call to her. “Daenerys—”

”Call me Dany,” she says, and Dany leans in again. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to that one person who requested a continuation... this chapter is for you

“Daenerys?” Sansa called into her chambers, her hands fisted in her skirts. Despite Winterfell’s stone walls always being warm to the touch, braziers had been lit throughout the rooms, and Sansa was uncomfortably hot.   
  
“Yes?” Daenerys entered the solar from an antechamber to the side. She was clad in another silk in the style of a different Free City, one which flowed around her body and clung to her like water. 

“I was wondering—” Sansa stops herself to take a breath, before the words come stumbling out. “I was wondering,” she repeats, her voice less wavery this time, “if we’ll ever be able to—you know, the kiss—” Sansa says _kiss_ too fast, as if she’s trying to get it out of her body “we’ll ever be able to have a, you know, relationship. Properly.”

“What do you mean?” Dany asks, her brows lowered into a frown. “I care about you, and you’ve proven you care about me. What else do we have to do?”

Sansa is briefly reminded how much she dislikes entitled queens, and her lip curls. “Well, things between two _women_ —it’s just not done.”

“Then why shouldn’t it be done?” Dany challenges, anger flashing in her eyes. “In the Free Cities, there are women who are wedded to other women, men who dally with other men openly. Without fear of consequence. Westeros should be like that as well.” 

“Well, it’s not!” Sansa says back, defensively, “And I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but neither of us can very well go to Essos. Have you forgotten about the White Walkers at the Wall? Did you not hear anything from the council meetings? Westeros _needs_ us, Dany—”

Daenerys stops her with a hand on her chest, and Sansa’s heart suddenly starts beating faster. “Sansa. You called me _Dany_.”

“So what if I did? It doesn’t matter anyway,” Sansa says, her hand going to cover Dany’s without thought. “We’ll never be able to be together.” 

“Not openly, not yet,” Dany says, moving in closer to Sansa. “But we’ll make a world where we can.”

Sansa’s breath hitches in her throat at Dany’s closeness, and she is leaning in when she remembers herself, and pulls back. “Wait—” 

Dany’s eyes meet hers, and Sansa stares into the pools of purple, seeing Dany’s concern writ large across her face. Her words catch in her throat as she tries to say them.

“ _Khaleesi_?” One of Dany’s Dothraki girls walks in from an antechamber. Sansa inwardly sighs as Daenerys steps back from her, and the air immediately around her seems to go cold, even though all the braziers in the solar have been lit. “It is your Irri. A bath, _Khaleesi_?”

Dany smiles at the handmaiden— _Irri,_ Sansa thinks—and for a moment Sansa feels like she would very much like to send her back to Essos, if she dares interrupt her time with Dany. She tamps the flare of jealousy down as Dany places her hand on Irri’s arm.

“Not today, Irri, sweetling,” she says, back turned to Sansa. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Yes, _Khaleesi_ ,” Irri says obediently, then turns around to go back into the antechamber, looking chastened.

Dany turns back to Sansa with an apologetic smile. “That is Irri, one of my handmaidens. A bridal gift from a Magister in the Free Cities.”

“Fine,” Sansa says, her fingers twisting together to hide her irritation. “I’ll be seeing you in the morning, then. I had better not keep you from your bed with _Irri_.”

Sansa would swear blind she didn’t mean to sound so jealous, but Daenerys’s injured look is a recoil, and she realises the implications of what she just said. “Daenerys—I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be,” Daenerys snaps. “You’ve made your bed and I’ve made mine.”

“Fine,” Sansa snaps back, and turns around to storm out of Daenerys’s chambers. 

She would swear blind that she’d never liked Daenerys, anyway. 

* * *

Meetings with her advisors are becoming tiresome—Daenerys will snap at her from her perch at the opposite end of the room to Sansa, and she will respond in kind. It should not have taken Sansa by surprise when soft-spoken Missandei, one of Daenerys’s retinue, eventually plucked up the nerve to speak to Sansa after the meeting about it. 

Sansa feels a tap on her shoulder, and turns to see the scribe standing there. “My lady, this one wishes to speak to you,” she says, eyes widened anxiously. 

Sansa sighs tiredly. “Very well.” 

“This one cannot write down everything that is said in the meetings for the amount that you and Mhysa Dany argue. This one wishes that you would perhaps not bicker during the meetings.” Missandei bites her lip, as if afraid that Sansa will demand retribution for what she said, and she is immediately struck with sympathy for the girl. She smiles widely. 

“Well then, this one shall try not to argue in the council meetings. It would help, of course, if—Oh, never mind that.” 

Missandei’s brow furrows. “This one would like to know what you speak of.” 

“Nothing,” Sansa says, even though everything in her is straining to spill over and for the information about everything to spill out.

One damn kiss, and it’s ruined her life. 

“This one feels—” Missandei stops to take a quick breath, like that of a deer before running from the hunter. “This one feels that perhaps you want Mhysa Dany, in the way that men want women in this Westeros of yours, and that perhaps you do not know how to act on that wanting.” 

Sansa lets out a hollow laugh. “I have, for all the good it did me.” 

“My lady,” Missandei says sternly, “you must talk more to Mhysa Dany, then, this one has seen this before. You Westerosi are very good at taking what you want. Less good at building something new.” 

Sansa gives Missandei the beginnings of a genuine smile. “Thank you,” she says, and she means it. 

* * *

Sansa chooses to summon Daenerys to her chambers the next night. She has just dressed herself for bed, and is beginning to wonder whether Daenerys is actually coming, when she hears a knock at her chamber door, and nearly flings her bedcovers to the floor in her haste to open it. 

Once more, Daenerys makes Sansa’s breath leave her. The cut of this night’s dress exposes most of Daenerys’s left breast, and Sansa has to force herself not to touch her. 

Gods, Sansa is going nearly mad with wanting. 

Daenerys’s tone, however, is cool as the snow that is blown on the chilling wind from the North. “What did you want me for?” 

Sansa can only redden inexplicably at Daenerys’s words. “I—”

“Spit it out. It’s nothing you can’t have said to me before.” 

Sansa cannot hold back the tide any longer. It rushes out of her in a great wave, engulfing all before her. 

“I want you still, Daenerys. I want you so much that I don’t know if I hate you for making me want you or if I hate myself for wanting you, for succumbing. I don’t know if either of us can ever make something of what is between us, and I want to know if we can, but I’m scared for the answer.” Sansa takes a deep breath before tears join the torrent of words. “And I don’t want to admit that I don’t know what to do here. Dany—I don’t know how to love you. But I want to be able to try.” 

At that, tears start seeping out, and Daenerys, who has been quiet and stone-faced all this time, moves forward, and takes Sansa’s face in her hands. 

“Sansa. It’s going to be all right. We’ll work it out. Together.” 

Sansa finds herself smiling back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you love it? did you hate it? did you think it was wildly out of style? 
> 
> leave a comment or kudos if you have any opinions on the above three!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Sansa finally start working together instead of against each other, but have they lost crucial time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws this chapter at you* sry for being so late with the update online school is devoted to kicking my ass 
> 
> but hang in there this will keep on updating until we get to the conclusion, because somewhere along the way it turned into a bit of a season 8 rewrite
> 
> somehow this chapter was also... really cathartic? i think it’s making me realise i, also, have quite a bit of internalised homophobia (like Sansa in this fic). anyway warning for sansa’s internalised homophobia. it’s also heavily implied that they had sex the night before, but nothing too graphic.

Daenerys and Sansa are woken early by Jhiqui, whose lip curls at the sight of them tangled together in each other in the bed. Sansa glowers back at her, already touchy and quick to anger, but Dany simply smiles gently at her, which seems to pacify her. 

“Leave us for a few moments, Jhiqui,” Dany murmurs, hands already moving to Sansa to soothe any of her troubles. Jhiqui relents and turns away, but not before shooting them another disgusted look. Her eyes blaze with hatred, and although everything Dany has told Sansa—that women should be able to dally with each other openly, without fear of the consequences—goes against it, she thinks that she has brought it upon herself, by daring to dally with Daenerys.

Sansa spares herself a moment to appreciate how Daenerys looks: framed by the bleached, light winter sunrise, her features and hair are paled, serving to accentuate her Targaryen purple eyes. Her lips are reddened from kissing, and her hands are warm on Sansa’s skin. 

Tentatively, Sansa dares to touch Dany back, hand moving to her cheek, then shoulder, then sliding across her breastbone and to her chest, rising and falling under her forever-cold palm. Touching Dany is walking on a sword-edge, dancing atop the Wall. It would be so easy for Sansa to give into the fear that spurred the dislike at their first meeting and the arguments after the kiss, but when she lets go of the fear, it feels like she is atop the world. 

Dany’s own hands slide down Sansa’s body, past her bare chest and passing her stomach, until her fingers have reached the place they were last evening. A gasp escapes Sansa’s throat at Dany’s caress as she drags a finger down one thigh. 

“Dany...” Sansa breathes, awed eyes looking into Dany’s. “Please.” 

Their eyes lock as Dany kisses her and gives her what she asked for, causing a moan to escape from between Sansa’s lips.

* * *

They arrive at the first meeting of the day together. It had been Dany’s idea: while Sansa had wished for them to arrive separately, Dany had insisted that if they truly were to challenge Westeros’s perceptions of women having affairs with other women, they needed to be open from the beginning. The reaction is certainly very much unlike Sansa would have thought: Jorah Mormont bristles, but it has no real strength behind it, Bran nods at them coolly, and none of Dany’s ex-slaves bats as much as an eyelid. 

“The first order of business for the day,” declares Bran, staring down at a scroll, “is about the Night’s Watch.” 

“The new Lord Commander has slaughtered all the wildlings he can find in cold blood, and Stannis and the red woman have left the Wall.”

Jorah Mormont snorts. “Why should we care about the wildlings? They’ve done nothing to help us.” 

Bran shoots Jorah a chilly look. “They saved my life. I will not have you insulting them in front of me.” 

Dany clears her throat. “No matter what they were like, nobody deserves to die slaughtered in cold blood. I stand with Bran.” 

Sansa cautiously takes Dany’s hand in hers, all the while expecting somebody to notice and take offense, and squeezes it in solidarity. A smile tugs at the corner of Dany’s lips. 

“What are we to do?” Sansa asks, trying to bring the subject away from arguments. 

“If the new Lord Commander is truly as barbarous as they say, we should remove him from his post at once.” Dany’s voice is confident and strong, the voice of a queen, and it steadies Sansa just as it had the night before.

“Oh, sweetling, the Night’s Watch don’t take kindly to newcomers meddling in their business.” a figure coos from the dark corners of the room. It steps forward, and Sansa sees a haggard, scarred old man, in the blacks of the Night’s Watch—although his cloak is spiked and his sword missing. 

“We have to do what is right to save the rest of the wildlings.” Dany’s shoulders are set and her face stern. “I will not have people needlessly butchered.” 

“Who should do it?” Sansa asks, and the question throws the room into silence. Her gaze flicks wildly around the chamber, then lands on an eunuch. _Grey Snake_ , or suchlike. 

“You, deserter. What do you think—do you think one of the eunuch soldiers could do the job?” 

The deserter sucks his dirty lip into his mouth. “I don’t know, Lady. He’d never be able to get into Castle Black. ‘S a fortress, pretty much. Archers on the battlements. Hidden traps all over.” 

“Still—” Bran protests.

“Here’s some advice, my little lord. Never fall in love with wildlings. They’re the falsest friends you could ever meet.” 

Something about the way the deserter’s eyes dart guiltily reminds Sansa of someone, but she cannot place exactly whom it is. 

“Very well. We shall work on alternative solutions later. This meeting is adjourned,” Sansa says, pushing her chair away from the table and getting up in a sweep of skirts and fur. 

Though she does not look, she knows that Dany is following behind. 

* * *

Winterfell’s battlements are covered with heavy winter snows, and Sansa’s freshly made prints are soon filled by new snow. Looking over her shoulder, chin buried in fur, she sees Dany walking towards her. Her queen’s skin is blue under her silks from the chill, and Sansa rushes to her immediately, sweeping off her heavy fur cloak and draping it over her shoulders. 

Daenerys’s answering smile is warmer than her cloak ever was. “Thank you.” 

“Anything for you.” Sansa says. She stumbles over the words a little, still unused to saying anything other than insults to Dany, but her queen doesn’t seem to mind that, leaning into her side. 

Having Daenerys standing next to her makes her feel as if she has been set on fire, and she needs to get away. Or like she’s caged. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, hands reaching for Dany only to be pulled back again. 

Daenerys notices. She always notices. And she takes Sansa’s jerky hands in hers and puts them on her cheek and in her hair, and leans in to kiss her. 

Sansa hesitates, though, even as Dany’s lips full of red-hot fire press against hers, burning through the ice, and when Dany pulls away her eyes are concerned, but kind. 

“I’m sorry, Dany, I don’t know what it is about me—”

Dany’s gaze turns fierce. “Don’t apologise. We’ll figure it out together, like we will for the rest of our lives.” 

Sansa’s gloved hand is moved onto Dany’s shoulder, and her other clutches Dany’s. 

Together, they watch the snow fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m diverging from my usual notes to say: be like dany & support Black Lives Matter! sign petitions, donate if you have money (or you can watch YouTube videos to donate as well!)  
> naturally if you are a white supremacist or trump supporter, believe that cops are good, or are generally bigoted and do not do anything to educate yourself, YOU SHOULD NOT BE READING MY WORK. I DO NOT WRITE TO CATER FOR YOU.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Sansa’s newfound happiness is threatened by the Night King’s army beyond the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who’s commented, kudos’d, subscribed, and bookmarked! 
> 
> here you go daensa fans

The knowledge of the lingering threat beyond the Wall fades away as Dany puts Sansa’s cold hand on her warm cheek, and smiles at her. Daenerys is like a crackling fireplace instead of a wildfire; a thin, bony dragon instead of a large, terrifying one. While others might deride her as weak for it, though, Sansa has no qualms with it. 

(If it were another time—another summer—Sansa might have said that she loved Daenerys for it.)

Dany makes her forget, but forgetting is dangerous. Winter whirls around outside, and Sansa knows—she’s known forever—that it will come for them, and she fears that it will happen sooner or later.

“Sweetling, you are wandering,” Dany whispers. 

“I know,” Sansa turns to her, voice quiet, “but I don’t know how to stop.”

Dany sits up, pulling the sheets around her hips. “Talk to me, wolf queen.”

Sansa smiles a little at the name, but her eyes darken in seriousness as she talks. “Winter is coming, Dany, and I don’t know if we—what we are—will survive. And I want to make the most of the time we have been given, of course I do.”

“But?” Dany asks.

Sansa lets out a long, shuddering sigh. “I can’t be your— _lover—_ and fight the armies Beyond the Wall at the same time. Something will always be there to tear me from your arms.”

Dany kisses away a tear that Sansa had not realised had slipped out. She softens as she says, “Oh, sweetling, they are yet beyond the Wall. Let us take our nights of pleasure when we can.” 

Sansa nods, and then they say no more.

* * *

“Bad news,” Meera Reed declares as she marches into the council chamber, brown hair speckled with already-melting snow. “The army is on the move in earnest.”

Bran’s eyes, which had initially focused on Meera with a look of affection and despair, turn back to the darker color that Sansa has learned to associate with the Three-Eyed Raven. His mouth is slack as he says, “I have seen it. They shall come with thousands of Others. The Wall shall crumble should we not aid it.”

Sansa sighs. She barely got any sleep last night, initially from Dany’s lovemaking, but afterwards she had lain awake dreading that the army of Others would be rising. It seems that she is developing her own faculty for prediction. 

“We shall have to send aid to the Wall—it is our first line of defence,” Sansa says, although anyone could have foreseen that they would have to send aid. Her voice is not the voice of Sansa, but the voice of the Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, as she speaks. “And the villages shall have to be evacuated.”

“We can do that on our ride north,” Jorah Mormont suggests. 

“Who shall we send, though?” Sansa observes, and the room falls into contemplative silence. 

Bran is the first to speak up. “I will be of more use at Winterfell. I may continue to send you my visions with less interruptions, and I am afraid I shall slow your party down should I ride.”

“I’ll go.” Meera speaks up suddenly. “I know the secret ways of the North, and the villages shall listen to me should I tell them to evacuate.”

Sansa nods, although the pained look that passes over Bran’s face at her declaration makes her sure of his feelings. 

“Deserter.” Dany speaks up suddenly. “Do you know of how these Others can be killed.”

A short, curt nod. “Fire has been found to kill them. And dragonglass.” 

Dany pushes her chair away from the table and stands up. “You will need my dragons, Queen in the North. I must go.” 

“Then I shall go as well.” Sansa stares daggers around the table, and takes joy from how they quail. 

“Queen Sansa, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Meera’s shock is palpable. “And Bran is a Stark no longer.”

“I will not be swayed upon this.” Sansa’s voice is Valyrian steel and icy lakes, ready to shatter under unsuspecting footsteps. 

“My lady—”

Sansa cuts the deserter off. “I have said I will not be swayed. And I will not. We leave in a day.” 

* * *

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Dany whispers into her ear. “I couldn’t—”

“Hush. I did it for you,” Sansa says. “Don’t you understand, all I want is for you to be safe?”

Daenerys’s smile is pained. “I know, but I do not need protection. My dragons shall suffice.” 

“I’m scared for you!” Sansa shouts. “Those men at the Wall, they’re rapists, murderers. I don’t want you to have to go through—” 

Dany’s eyes widen. “That... I did not know...” 

“I thought they were good once, too.” The memory smarts. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” Dany says, and it is genuine. “Look, if we do not come back—all I want you to know is—I love you.” 

She kisses Sansa’s cheek and, in a swirl of skirts, departs to her room to make the necessary preparations.

Sansa touches her cheek where Dany had kissed it gently. “She _loves_ me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE BROUGHT OUT THE L WORD! FINALLY!
> 
> Sansa didn’t say it this time around... but don’t give up yet, dany WILL make her say it! Eventually!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They ride for the Wall, but Sansa is disquieted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’re crawling up to the Big One™ soon...

Sansa is helped to mount her horse by Meera: the girl’s lean body is surprisingly strong, and bears her weight well. Meera herself rides a small pony, its hair long and shaggy. Dany is not yet readied, and Sansa’s horse paws at the ground impatiently.

“You are uneasy, Lady Stark,” Meera notes. “You pull too hard at the reins; you prance about, not sure where to go. Why is that?”

Sansa stills her horse with a frown and says, “I am not uneasy, Lady Reed. I am simply impatient.”

Meera snorts into her shoulder, quietly. “Your horse is impatient, you are not.”

She sighs. “I cannot afford to look weak, Lady Reed.”

Meera nudges her pony further towards Sansa’s. “I think we know each other well enough that you may drop the ‘Lady Reed.’”

“As you wish, Lady Meera.” Sansa says, indifferently.

The other woman looks down at the ground, nervous, before flicking her gaze to Sansa. “Queen Sansa, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Sansa says, pulling on the reins again after she had initially put her boots into the horse’s side, prepared to run rather than answer. 

She bites her lip before asking, “What exactly are you and Lady Daenerys to each other?”

Sansa lets out a breathless laugh: she’d expected a question that would force her to reveal something darker. Something that she refuses to talk about at all.

“I suppose we are... each other’s queens,” she says, in lieu of a longer explanation that detailed how her and Dany’s relationship had evolved. 

Meera nods. “Do you wish to marry her?”

“What?” Sansa exclaims initially, before she pulls her cloak around herself and, looking down at her horse’s neck, weaving her fingers through its mane to calm herself. She could tell Meera about this. She _could_. 

“If it were to unite our two ideals, then certainly,” Sansa says, measuredly. “Yet I do not think we could. There will surely be some lord who offers greater advantages than I.”

“Queen Sansa,” Meera says, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You offer more advantages than any suitor I know of. Not only that, but I believe that she would marry you for love alone.”

Her words comfort something deep inside Sansa, soothe doubt and jealousy. Sansa smiles a little easier. 

“I hope so,” she says, not to anyone in particular. “I hope so.”

* * *

Daenerys trots out upon a fine white mare with silver bells braided into its long mane and tail. The horse does not appear like any from the North: it is slim instead of bulky, light-footed instead of heavy-treaded. Sansa guesses that it is Dothraki; Dany does not seem to have anything for her own.

Mormont and the deserter follow behind on Winterfell horses, large and bulky things like Sansa’s. She nods upon seeing their party, and puts her boots into her horse’s sides to push it into a walk. It lumbers through the gates of Winterfell, and she kicks it urgently. Now that the occasion has come to leave, Sansa finds that she is eager to get away from Winterfell. She had not realised how stifling it had been until she had rode out of the gates: even in Dany’s arms she felt the idea of her parents’s disapproval upon her, seen Robb’s gaze marking her out as simply a girl, and a girl who had crowned herself Queen in the North at that.

Sansa pushes her horse on further, and hears the others follow suit, hooves sounding upon the frozen ground. From behind her, Daenerys yells something in Valyrian to the sky, and within moments Sansa feels inhuman eyes on the back of her neck. The dragons simultaneously reassure and disconcert her: while she is happy to be in their company, she still feels the sense of danger that she had felt around the Hound before, as if she could make one wrong move and they could destroy her immediately.

She stills her breathing, forces herself to concentrate on the road ahead. Hooves pound upon the frosty surface of the soil, resounding into the firm earth. She lets herself fall into the rhythm of her horse, enough to coax it forwards into a canter. Moving one hand away from the reins in order for her to wrap her furs tighter around herself, she calms, and the world falls away into flurries of snow and the panting of her horse. 

* * *

They stop for the night at a small inn that the deserter had pointed out. Sansa hands the reins of her horse to the deserter at the stables, dusts snow out of its mane and her hair before entering. 

Dany is already working at a small pile of logs, trying to set them alight.

“No dragons?” Sansa asks as she sets a spark. 

“They’re too large to fit inside,” Dany says matter-of-factly. She stands up, and begins to remove her outerwear. “Would you undo these clasps for me?” she asks, pointing at two clasps upon her back. She sighs as Sansa’s chilled fingers work at them, and leans back into her touch as Sansa slides her hands under the garment to slip it off. 

Dany turns around, her eyes kindly. “Let me,” she whispers as she moves in to take off Sansa’s furs. 

“Yes,” Sansa says. Dany lifts it off in silence, and then moves to her coat, undoing the clasps holding the fabric together. When her hands go to Sansa’s shoulders, Sansa murmurs, “I think that I might love you, as well.”

Dany’s smile is knowing. “I know that you do.”

Sansa leans in and kisses her there, quickly, before anyone can see. When she pulls back, Dany throws her arms around Sansa’s neck.

“I’ll make sure we both survive,” she says, determinedly, “if only so that I can teach you how to love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you’re after more content from me in the gap between chapters i have a daensa modern au as well... go check that out if you like


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reach the Wall, only to find it in chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is going to be the big battle so forgive me if it takes a bit longer to write!

They spend a night at the inn, Sansa and Dany lying together underneath layers of furs. Dany’s skin burns where Sansa’s skin is against hers, but not with fever: radiant warmth seems to emanate from her in waves. Sansa barely sleeps, so tempted is she by the prospect of the woman beside her, and the night passes slowly as she feels herself slowly sweating with want.

She must have fallen asleep at some time during the night, though, as when she next opens her eyes, it is morning, and cold light is filtering into the inn from a window with the curtains open. Beside her, Dany blinks, reaching for Sansa, but she scrambles away, pushing aside the furs. Meera’s soft laugh falls onto them, and she turns from where she is pouring ice water onto the fire to stifle it.

“The horses are saddled,” she informs them, standing up from her kneeling position. Sansa notes that Meera wears heavy layers of furs, and in conjunction with her statement she realises that they are ready to set out.

“Tell them to give us a moment,” Sansa says as imperiously as she can. When Meera nods and exits, she dives to Dany’s side, hands reaching for her queen’s shoulders. She reaches downwards and lifts a long dress, Winterfell style, from the floor to give to Dany. As Dany pulls it on, Sansa notes that it is one from her own younger days, and fits Dany perfectly. In turn, Dany gathers Sansa’s dress from the floor and hands it to her to put on. They dress in silence, working at their own clasps this time. Even when Sansa places furs around Dany’s neck, and Dany clasps her cloak, they are silent. The threat of their possible deaths hangs heavy over them.

In silence, they exit the cabin, and go to the stables, where their horses wait in the centre of the yard. Meera helps Sansa into the saddle, while Jorah assists Dany. The same melancholy that affects Sansa and Dany seems to have settled over the group: Sansa would have found the silence intimidating, had she not known the gravity of the situation they were riding into. With a nod to the deserter to lead on, she kicks her horse forwards, and they are upon the road to the Wall once more.

* * *

Sansa hears the Wall first: a great clamour of screams and shouts and yells. The sound of heavy objects falling urges them all on, and Sansa sinks her boots into her horse, uncaring about the animal’s own feelings about the punishing pace they fall into. A sense of eerie and danger seems to lurk in front of them as they push on.

When they round a glade of trees and the Wall comes into view, Sansa screams at the sight. Immediately Dany is beside her, arm reaching out to her. Their horses halt, and Dany and Sansa watch in stunned silence as they take in the scene. 

Fire ravages Castle Black, licking through the skeleton of the building, and Sansa sees the shape of one of Dany’s dragons in the sky, shooting fire down onto the ice. Men of the Night’s Watch, wildlings, and figures that Sansa thinks can only be Others run amid the wreckage.

It is not only the sight of Castle Black gone that shocks her, though, but the portion of the Wall that has fallen away. A large gap looms inbetween two split pieces of the Wall, like it was cleaved apart by an ancient and terrifying god.

“Jon...” Sansa is surprised that her lips form her bastard brother’s name, a name she has not said for many long years. She casts a wild glance around their party.

“We have to help. _Now_.”

Meera nods, and readies her frog-spear. The look in her eyes as she kicks her pony on is that of a warrior, steely-eyed and dangerous, and Sansa realises that the Reed girl is twice the danger to the enemy than Jorah and the deserter are. She looks to Dany, desperately.

“Dany, I need you to make your dragons kill the Others.” she says, trying not to betray how terrified she is. 

Dany reaches out to touch her gently. “Of course.” 

A tear trickles down Sansa’s cheek as she sees Dany ride into battle, a great and doomed queen, shouting “ _Dracarys!_ ” at the top of her voice. The world slows until all Sansa can see is Daenerys: the movement of her hand that guides the dragonfire, the way she wheels her mare about to direct the wildlings and the Night’s Watch against the Others. 

Sansa realises that she has never truly said that she loved Dany, and it is this realisation that spurs her to ride into battle, her horse’s hooves thunder against the icy ground. She draws up beside where Dany has paused, and her gaze falls in the same direction as Dany’s.

From the gap between the Wall, a dark figure is advancing. Its eyes blaze a cold, wicked ice-blue, like dragonfire trapped in ice. Dany signals for her dragons to return to her. 

Sansa gazed around the battlefield. Her eyes find Meera, fighting alongside a wildling woman whose blonde hair streams in the ice wind. She recognises the look in Meera’s eyes as she gazed at the woman: it is the look that Daenerys had given her, what seemed like years before. 

Meera seems to sense Sansa’s eyes upon her, and she stills the horse to dismount. Her eyes are determined as she holds out a hand, which the wildling woman takes after a moment of hesitation. They walk across the battlefield hand in hand to stand next to Sansa and Dany.

Sansa gazes at Dany for what could perhaps be the last time, and under her breath, she whispers:

“I love you. _Dracarys_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Reviewer_Only for inspiring me to give meera a girlfriend! as for who it is? you’ve got to wait for the next chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle is upon them, and not everyone will make it out unscathed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the final countdown by Europe plays*
> 
> also: this has over a thousand hits?? what the fuck?? im actually amazed at that
> 
> this ending is what you get when you read too many GoT fan theories and decided to create your own

It seems that Sansa has barely blinked before Dany’s leg is flung over Drogon and the dragon queen and her dragon rise into the sky, fanning the flames already created. Cries of “Dracarys!” can be heard reverberating across the ice, shaking the winter inside Sansa to her very core. She is simultaneously terrified and fascinated by this new warrior side of Dany: a flush rises in her cheeks and heat pools between her legs as flame falls upon the legions of Others. 

Sansa reminds herself that there is still a possibility that one or both of them could die today, and the thought sends chills down her spine. She glances to Meera for support, and the girl nods in encouragement, her hand still locked in the wildling woman’s.

Sansa closes her eyes, sends out her senses into the sky and the ground and the essence of everything. She feels clods of dirt encasing her body, a phantom pain at her neck still stinging. She sees with other eyes the world in black and blue, all the light and joy banished. Primal fear rises in her at the sight of fire, and her paws scrabble on the ice, retreating. 

Sansa breathes. Opens her eyes.

And the world changes in front of her, blue and red melding, swirling, twisting around each other. Snow and flame dance together in patterns that have no visible rhyme or reason.

She hears someone else’s voice in her head, a raspy sound like bark being pulled away from a tree trunk. 

_This is the song of ice and fire, that will bring an end to the Long Night once and for all._

She does not completely understand, not all the way, but she knows what she must do now.

Sansa casts one last glance around at her scattered allies: Meera with her frog-spear piercing the breast of one of the Others, the shard of dragonglass at the tip embedding itself into the blue flesh; the wildling woman beside her ( _the wildling queen_ , Sansa’s mind supplies) driving a sword of glimmering Valyrian steel nearly as tall as Meera’s pony into the gaps between the Others’ armor; Jorah Mormont charging into battle for the last time, yelling something about how he would die for his queen. The deserter remains upon the hill, quiet and ever-watchful.

And then Sansa’s gaze flicks into the sky, to where Daenerys and her dragon have ascended. Fear settles into her belly as a whisper echoes within her mind: _This is the price that must be paid._

Sansa knows that the time to be scared is past, yet she cannot help what rises within her as she considers what she must do. She bows her head.

“Father, forgive me,” she whispers. “Mother, keep me. Robb, protect me. And Arya, help me.”

Then, she rides for the Night King.

* * *

Sansa does not know how to kill a dragon. Ned would have said that a sword had done well enough for the last one, but then what Ned had not known was that Aerys had been no true Targaryen. 

She settles upon using one of the Others’ giant crossbows, the bolts loaded and trained upon the dragon in the sky. Sansa rides hard and fast, rounding the end of the line and reining her horse in behind it.

Growls fill the air around her, and although Sansa does not look, she knows that beside her walks her direwolf, here for her as she had never been in life. 

Sansa inhales a mouthful of icy air. 

“Forgive me,” she whispers, although it comes out of her mouth strangled. Lady’s paws are upon the giant crossbow, the Other-direwolf knowing the procedure better than her. The Others manning it have stepped away, leaving the approach to it clear.

A tear falls down her cheek, rolls onto the curve of her chin—the chin that Dany had cupped so tenderly once. 

Sansa lets the bolt fly. 

* * *

Drogon’s body falls to the ice with a resounding crash, and Sansa is filled with a sense of hopeless finality. That all that she had tried to do to prevent this outcoming had been worthless. 

It does not surprise her when she runs across the ice to the dragon’s corpse. She falls to her knees and weeps over it, tears flowing freely and unabashedly. She does not know how long she cries.

When she lifts her head, snowflakes tangle in her hair, and her face is rubbed red-raw from crying. Regardless, Sansa pushes her hair away from her wet eyes and skin, and gets up from her kneeling position, turning to face the Night King. The fabric of her cloak snaps loudly in the wind, by now a gale surrounding the two of them.

Sansa knows that she must die, that only death may pay for life. By now, she has lost her family, lost her direwolf, lost her dragon-queen, that losing her life will not matter to her. It would have been worthless, anyways, without Daenerys.

She faces the dark figure steadily, ready to put an end to the Others once and for all.

In that moment as he approaches her, however, draws his sword of Valyrian steel, and lifts it to align it with her neck, Sansa hears something other than the wild howl of the winter wind. She hears a single miraculous word, screamed over the swirling wind.

“ _Dracarys_.”

The Night King, the dark figure approaching her, the embodiment of Winter itself, is engulfed by flame, and Sansa can only stumble away to avoid the dragonfire as it burns, using up the Night King’s body and spreading to lick at the Others. She feels a cold hand upon her wrist, pulling her away, and she darts a gaze upwards, into glowing blue eyes.

“Uncle Benjen,” she whispers, seeing the deserter’s face for the first time. Briefly, Sansa wonders why he had never revealed himself, but she does not get the chance to ask him: within moments she is upon the lip of the forest that they had started on, and her uncle is gone, a black-cloaked figure amongst the trees.

Sansa chokes a sob as she takes in the scene: her dragon-queen, white hair charred and her body injured, Sansa’s warm Northern clothes partially stripped away. Yet despite how pitiful she appears, Daenerys’s voice is strong as she commands fire to lick over the ground and the Others.

She does not know how long she watches the Others’ ending, does not think of the length of time that passes as Meera, the wildling queen and her army of wildlings drive at the Others. All she can tell is that she blinks, once, and when she opens her eyes, she knows that the Long Night has come to an end.

There is only one thing left to do.

Sansa reaches out with her senses, feels the presence of the Other-Lady across the field, backed up against the Wall. Her glowing blue eyes train upon a hairline crack in the Wall, and her claw—a single claw—reaches up to drive inside that crack, work it open and create a fissure down the entire Wall. Other cracks within the structure begin to open, a web of lines spreading over the Wall in the moments before the very end of the Long Night.

Finally, the Wall crumbles, collapsing upon Castle Black and the flames running across the frosted ground, black stone hitting the ice and cracking into smaller and smaller pieces. Sansa knows that they will never need it again.

Dany takes her hand. Sansa had not noticed that Rhaegal had landed, nor that Dany was now beside her. 

“Let’s go home,” she says, and Sansa thinks that those may be the finest words in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is more coming after that! this fic isn’t QUITE done yet...
> 
> if you want my thoughts on why the hell i chose to create this ending to the Others and the Long Night, the comments are always open!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Sansa return to Winterfell and take up their respective mantles as Queen of the Six Kingdoms and Queen in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all your support of this fic so far it means the world to me <3
> 
> this is definitely going to keep on going for a long while because i have many more ideas re these two

The ride through Winterfell’s gates is quiet, with only Sansa and Dany returning and neither of them speaking. Snowflakes dance in the wind, settling over Dany’s pale white hair and across the shoulders of her burned and ripped cloak.

Dany must be shivering, but if she is, she does not show it. Sansa admires her for that: she has always felt that to the outside, she showed emotion too easily, her pain and hate and love written across her face. Lack of emotion, Sansa thinks, makes for a better ruler.

Dismouting, her boots hitting the fresh layer of snow covering Winterfell, Sansa tugs her horse by the reins towards the stables. Snow is melting on the horse’s coat from the layer of sweat covering it, and briefly Sansa feels a pang of disappointment that she had allowed herself to keep pushing it on further without noticing how worked up it had become. She decides to shut herself into the stable with the horse, closing the door, and to handle the untacking herself. 

In truth, she had not been sure whether she would talk to Dany or choose silence once they arrived at Winterfell. Silence seems like the better option, though, as she rubs her fingers to warm them before shouldering the saddle and tugging the girth upwards to undo it. 

The work is monotonous and Sansa begins to sweat quickly with how unused she is to it, but she continues nevertheless, reaching for the bridle to fiddle with the buckles. Her fingers stumble over the motions before she finally manages to uncouple it and lift the bridle away. 

Sansa places the saddle over the stable door and lets herself out, closing the door afterwards, and rubs a damp palm over her forehead to wipe away the sweat. Her face must be red from the exertion, but it cools as she walks out of the stable block and back into the flurries of snow. 

Dany’s back is turned to her and her hand is skating over the nose of her horse, skin pale pink against the white of the horse. Sansa notes that as yet, nobody has arrived to assist her with the untacking of the horse, leaving her alone with Dany.

It is not that she dislikes Daenerys’s company: in fact, there is nobody who she would rather spend time with more than her. It is simply that Sansa, in the wake of the battle with the Night King, does not know how to continue their relationship.

She still loves Daenerys, still drowning under the weight of the feelings that she holds for her. Yet in the days before, Sansa had been able to forget about the inevitable burden of queenship resting on both their shoulders. _Dany_ had managed to make her forget.

As her gaze sweeps around Winterfell and she notices the stares of the few who remained from within the windows of the stone keep, she remembers the promise that she had made to herself and the people of the North that she would rule as their queen and rebuild. That would, of course, mean leaving Dany—the other woman had made no secret of her wish to become queen of the Seven Kingdoms—to rule in King’s Landing, in order that Sansa might rule from Winterfell. 

She is not surprised at how saddened she is by the prospect. While the promise of queenship had once seemed like a beacon of hope, an ambition for her to strive towards, Sansa now feels the heavy weight of the position and what she must give up to achieve it on her shoulders. 

She has to, though, otherwise she knows that the North will not survive the remainder of the winter.

Sansa bites her lip nervously as she approaches Dany. Ideas for her first sentence run through her mind desperately, and she settles on “ _Daenerys, I don’t know how I can speak to you after all that has happened_ ” as the final one. However, Dany must have heard her footsteps crunching through the snow, and turns from where she is running her hand through her horse’s mane to meet Sansa.

“Daenerys—” Sansa starts, but it is interrupted by a cold finger placed upon her lips in a gesture to quieten her. The other woman’s eyes are full of sorrow, and Sansa can tell that she will not be met with welcoming words. 

Not yet, anyways, or so she hopes.

Sansa nods, showing that she understands, and she turns on her heel to walk into Winterfell, ignoring the pain that courses through her at the thought of Daenerys alone in the cold.

* * *

She finds Bran in the council chamber, and immediately rushes to him to wrap his body in her arms. If he is taken aback, he does not show it, and instead allows her to cling tightly onto him.

He seems to tell what ails her, and one of his hands reaches to stroke her back soothingly. Sansa buried her face in the furs across his shoulders and allows herself to sob, her private sorrow escaping only enough to dampen Bran’s cloak.

When she pulls away, her cheeks are wet and red, and she reaches with the back of her hand to smear them away. 

“What do I do, Bran? How do I fix this?” she asks, not getting up from where she kneels upon the stone floor, ignoring the pain in her knees at the posture. 

Bran’s eyes mist over in the way that means he is seeing the future, and his voice seems disembodied, echoing around the council chamber, as he says, “You must give her time and space to grieve. In the end, she will forgive you, if you allow her to breathe without the confinement of your love.”

“It would kill me to stay away from her,” Sansa whispers brokenly.

“It would kill you both were you to approach her in her current state.” Bran replies. 

Sansa nods, resolve forming. “Then I will begin my rule, until such time has passed that she may forgive me. I think that she will leave of her own volition when she realises there is nothing for her here.”

“She already has,” Bran’s words prompt Sansa to run to the window overlooking the courtyard. True to his words, she notices that Daenerys’s horse is no longer there, and a trail of hoof prints leads out of Winterfell and turns southwards. 

If Sansa weeps, tears falling onto the sill, at Dany’s leaving, neither she nor Bran speak of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i owe reviewer_only an apology for the lack of meera in the rest of this fic. honestly this is a story about sansa and dany, not anyone else really. however, i will be writing some more set in this ‘verse so hit subscribe to this series and meera will get her own love story up beyond the (now-destroyed) Wall!
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://lesbiangrimalkin.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have won, but at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congratulations you get more angst. well done. you won the world. 
> 
> but at what cost?

Sansa receives word that Daenerys Targaryen now sits the Iron Throne from the Red Keep, in a letter signed by the Hand of the Queen, Tyrion Lannister. 

(She does not voice how much she longs for it to be Daenerys’s hand signing the parchment.)

It does not call for the North to bend the knee, for which Sansa is grateful to Daenerys for giving her, at least: a part of her is judiciously happy at the promise of independence, in the foul joy of that which has been stepped on yet manages to break the boot above it.

On a hopeless night, with the wind howling something wild outside the walls of her chamber and dark times ahead for the North in every number on each parchment, and the fire beginning to burn low in the brazier, Sansa is struck by a sudden burst of anger and hopelessness that she is unable to do anything from her seat as Queen of the North, and she hurls the letter into the fire, sending a fresh spatter of sparks into the air. 

“That _bitch_ ,” Sansa mutters to herself as she watches the letter burn, the parchment’s edge catching flame first before it is engulfed in fire. 

* * *

“Will we pull through?” Sansa asks, slowly numbing as she takes her eyes across the list of figures showing the food distribution across the various regions of the North.

Alysanne Mormont purses her lips as she reads over Sansa’s shoulder, voice a murmur at Sansa’s neck. Finally, she pulls away, and Sansa ignores the way that Alysanne’s warm breath on her neck had triggered an instinct that she believed she had buried, an instinct to lean back into the body behind her and dig her fingers into long hair to pull those lips down to meet her neck. 

Her face is dark and her brows lowered as she says, “I do not know, my lady. The winter has hit us hard and I doubt our current situation will continue to be sustainable for much longer.”

Sansa fixates on Alysanne’s lips as she talks. They’re nothing like Daenerys’s plush pink ones, which had seemed to swell out like a rosebud perfect for kissing: instead, Alysanne’s are thin and chapped, the lips of someone who has had to survive difficult times before and has given up on a dream of castles and becoming a lady. 

(She wonders what it would be like kissing those lips. Whether it would be as welcoming as Daenerys’s mouth had been to her. Whether she would know how to please Sansa like Daenerys had been able to.)

Shaking her head to toss away the thoughts of the naive girl she had been several months ago, she thinks over what Alysanne had said. Despair sinks over her like a bridal cloak, settling into place across her shoulders.

The sudden detoriation of Bran’s body has meant that few people have been allowed to visit him in his place at the weirwood each day, for his jaw is beginning to stiffen from the cold and his arms have weakened from lack of use. Still, Sansa is sure that he will not begrudge her a sisterly visit, no matter how much the Three-Eyed Raven has begun to take over the remnants of the brother she knew.

She bites her lip in anxiousness at the sight of him, though. His eyes have begun to glaze over and the whites are prominent, the sight reminding Sansa of the empty eyes of the statues in the crypts.

“Bran?”

A croak issues from her brother’s mouth, which hangs open and loose. “It is I, wolf girl.” Even his voice is the Three-Eyed Raven’s, older and wearier than Bran’s. 

“Will the North make it out of this winter alive?” Sansa asks, heart pounding against the cage of her chest.

“Ahh...” Bran’s body leans back into the backing of his wheeled chair, a sigh releasing from his mouth. “You pose a difficult question, wolf girl. Mine eyes cannot see the summer, for it blinds me. Yet I think—no, I know—there will be no simple answer.”

Sansa is unable to stop herself as she blurts out, “Will Daenerys come back to me?” After it passes her lips, she wishes she could drag it back into her throat, but the words are out there now.

She tells herself she is merely searching for closure, and that Daenerys is of no matter to her.

(Her heart knows better.)

“I have told you, wolf girl,” Bran says, and anger seems to flare in those blank eyes, “you must have patience if your dragon queen is to come back to you.”

Sansa is fed up of Three-Eyed Raven Bran’s convoluted advice, fed up of uncertainty and fed up of her life feeling like it is missing something deeply essential, a loss that tugs at her heartstrings. 

“Give me back my brother when summer comes,” she declares, to the sky above and the weirwood of her father’s gods. She stares Three-Eyed Raven Bran in the eyes and swears she sees him quake under her gaze. 

Croaking, it says “I cannot do that. He needs me, wolfgirl.” 

From the kennels, Summer barks, the sound echoing into the weir wood grove. It sounds like an argument or an agreement.

Sansa storms out before she can make herself look any more of a fool. 

* * *

The nib of her pen scratches and bites at the parchment, fighting her valiantly as she struggles to write the name at the beginning of the letter. 

She holds up the parchment to the light once it is done and inspects her work. 

_Daenerys Targaryen_ stands out in black against the empty parchment, which is bathed in light from the candlestick next to her. 

Heart rabbiting in her throat, Sansa puts the tip of the pen to the paper and begins to write, hand shaking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this IS my very long and convoluted fic and i will continue writing it regardless.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa continues to miss Daenerys, but her spirits are brightened as signs of spring start to come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’re getting to the end! (...finally)

Breathless, Sansa lifts the raven onto her wrist, a thick leather glove protecting her arm from its talons. The letter is slid into a loop of string at the raven’s foot. 

“The maester’s tower at King’s Landing,” she tells the bird, and it caws its assent. Sansa raises her arm higher, the raven’s weight heavy upon her arm, and with a flick of her wrist throws it into the air. An offended squawk comes out of its beak before it grudgingly opens its wings and flaps them, pushing at the air. 

She watches the bird fly away for a few more moments, black against the the dark blue colour of the sky and receding into the distance. Although the air is cold upon her skin, anticipation prevents her from shivering: her mind is alive with ideas and possibilities.

Sansa leans against the ramparts, stone pressing into her back and shoulders uncomfortably. By all rights, she should be sleeping, but sleep has been coming to her haltingly in recent times and she dislikes the endless tossing and turning that she experiences in her bedchambers. Her council has kindly elected to ignore the way that her under-eyes have become greyer and puffier recently as a result. 

As always, she finds her thoughts creeping back to memories of Daenerys. Alysanne, who Sansa had briefly admired from afar, had left for Bear Island once more to see how her people were holding up, and the memories that Sansa had frozen in her mind as a block against Daenerys’s perversive presence had melted as if they were under dragonfire. When she lifts her hand to rub at her eyes, she thinks of Daenerys’s burning hot fingers coming up to spread over her cheeks and pull her into a kiss. When she shifts against the wall, the clawing of the stone at her cloak reminds her of Daenerys’s nails on her bare back.

Sansa does not know whether she loves or hates the fact that Daenerys’s presence has returned to accompany her through sleepless nights. 

* * *

“Sister.” A hand pushes at her shoulder. “Wake up.”

Sansa blinks bleary eyes open, white snow and yellow sunlight nearly blinding her. She turns her head to the source of the voice. 

A person that she does not recognise stands by her bedside, dark brown hair barely grazing her shoulders. Sansa runs her eyes up and down their figure, the manner of dress and the sword at their belt along with the lines of an obviously female body incongruous to her.

“Who are you?” she asks, struggling to push herself into a standing position from the wall at her back.

The other person gives a warm chuckle, clearly laughing at Sansa. “Don’t you recognise your little sister?”

A memory comes back to Sansa, bright and clear as if it was only yesterday. She was yelling at a dirtied and bruised girl, whose hair was messy and short enough to be a boy’s, with nails gripping hard into the flesh of her arm.

“Arya?” she breathes, barely daring to believe it. “We... we thought you were dead!”

Her younger sister smiles sadly. “I guess I was, for a while.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa frowns. A moment afterwards, she adds “Never mind.” 

She is not sure which one of them rushes into the hug first, whether it is her or Arya, but a moment later Arya is in her arms, and she’s pressing her chin to Arya’s dark hair. Her sister’s arms are locked tightly around her waist, and she can feel new muscles under the sleeves of her jerkin.

“Oh, Arya,” Sansa whispers when she pulls back. “I’ve missed you. What happened to you during all these years? No, don’t speak of them yet,” she adds when Arya opens her mouth. “We shall hold a welcoming banquet and you can tell us all then.”

“Thank you,” Arya says quietly. She bites her lip before looking up at Sansa again. “I- I’m not going to be staying for long, though.”

“Where are you going?” Sansa asks, brow lowering.

“West,” Arya simply replies. “Further than anyone’s ever been before.”

* * *

Sansa walks through the snowed-over fields outside Winterfell, her boots leaving large indents in the snow where she has passed. The snow is soft underfoot, and with every step she seems to sink into it.

Around her, the fields are empty of any houses or lodgings, several trees that mark the corners of fields the only wood around. Midway through her walk, Sansa comes to one of them and puts her back against it in order to rest without having to sit down.

As her gaze finds the ground, she notices a patch of yellow beginning to poke through the snow. Kneeling down, she uses her bare hands to scrape the snow away. 

Her hands are red and cold by the time that she has moved enough snow to pick up the small flower that had been growing in it. She pulls at the stem to break it, and lifts the slightly crumpled flower to her face to examine it.

When she notices that it is a bright yellow dandelion, she smiles. 

She does not think the winter will go on for much longer. Soon, it will be spring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are cherished forever. unless they’re criticism or antis. then they go burn in hell

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by me having extra hot chilli sauce followed by an ice cream... the true song of ice and fire


End file.
